Missing
by Deeanna1973
Summary: Sergozia is poised to have its first ever election, but the projected winner's wife disappears and both sides are blaming each other. The IMF is called to investigate before the civil war rekindles. Mission-focused, 1988 series era. Please read and review! Story now complete! :)
1. Prologue

Disclaimer:

I do not own either of the Mission: Impossible series or any of the characters therein. I receive no compensation or other tangible benefit from this story. I am just a fan who enjoys taking the team out for an adventure every now and then. :)

* * *

Prologue

It was nearing dusk as the man approached the front door of his condo. His gait was quick, tight, almost marching; his mind a thousand miles away, wrapped up in the conversation on the other end of the cell phone attached to his left ear.

"We'll discuss our strategy first thing in the morning," he told the caller succinctly. "Tonight, Chelle and I have that gala to attend. We're expecting three hundred women there - at least three hundred more votes in our corner by the end of the night." As the voice on the other end continued to speak, the man reached to turn the doorknob, found it locked, frowned, and then fumbled in his right pocket for the key.

"I told you, we'll talk about this in the morning - Chelle? Chelle, I'm home!" he said absently to his caller, his mind now shifting to making sure his wife was ready for the big event that would be starting in less than two hours.

Finding nobody downstairs, and still holding the phone to his ear, he took the stairs two at a time. "Chelle?" he inquired casually. "Are you ready for your big night? I can't wait to see what you're wearing," he added, teasingly, as he opened the door to the master bedroom, fully expecting to see his wife standing on the other side.

The room was empty.

"Chelle?!" he cried out, an edge of panic seeping into his voice.

"Labon?" the caller was asking. "What's going on there? Labon?"

Labon did not answer at first. Instead, he yelled his wife's name over and over again, as he ran frantically from room to room, thrusting open doors and peering inside. Terror rose up like a lump in his throat. Finally, he was forced to come to the obvious conclusion.

"She's gone!" he screamed to the caller, who was still on the other end of the phone."

"What?!" came the incredulous response.

"She's not here! She's gone! They've taken her!

tbc...


	2. Chapter 1

Disclaimer:

I do not own either of the Mission: Impossible series or any of the characters therein. I receive no compensation or other tangible benefit from this story. I am just a fan who enjoys taking the team out for an adventure every now and then. :)

* * *

The tall, dashing gentleman got out of his black Escalade and strode confidently toward the quaint little organic market just off the roadside. The outer walls had faded to a weathered red-brown, and the wind-beaten awning blew gently with the slight breeze. Fresh produce was expertly displayed along the covered porch. A slender woman with long, straight auburn hair pulled back into a simple ponytail looked over the spread, reaching occasionally into a box to remove a blemished fruit. She glanced up and smiled as the white-haired man approached her.

"I read somewhere that 15 million people suffer from food allergies," he said, a twinkle in his bright blue eyes. "That true?"

"Yes, it is," she answered, recognizing the codespeak and joining in the banter. "That's why it's so important that everything be clearly labeled."

"To avoid accidental exposure?" came the second code phrase.  
"And cross contamination," she answered, satisfied that this was the contact she'd been told was coming. "If you want to check out our allergy friendly section, you can find it inside." He smiled and nodded as he entered through the faded wooden door with the rusty metal spring that slapped closed behind him.

There was nobody inside, for it was half an hour before the market would officially be open to the public. He walked to a brown wooden shelf littered with a handful of bags of rice and nut flours. Nestled in the midst of them was the rectangular black box he was looking for.  
A thumbprint confirmation, a three-digit code, and the tiny silver disc was revealed. He inserted it into the slot and heard the familiar voice as it began to play.

tbc...


	3. Chapter 2

Disclaimer:

I do not own either of the Mission: Impossible series or any of the characters therein. I receive no compensation or other tangible benefit from this story. I am just a fan who enjoys taking the team out for an adventure every now and then. :)

* * *

Chapter 2

"Good morning, Jim. Sergozia is an oppressive Middle Eastern country that was, until recently, led by this man, Amahl Shebaro. Shebaro was a ruthless dictator often compared to the likes of Hitler and Stalin."

Jim watched as the tiny DVD showed footage of the dictator in action, and winced internally as he realized that it could just as easily have come right out of WWII Germany...except it was 50 years later. How do people live like this? Jim wondered silently, once again giving unspoken thanks for freedom.

"Eight years ago, a small faction of men sympathetic to the democratic ideals of the West began an uprising which grew into an all-out civil war. Shebaro was assassinated," the voice continued as the DVD showed footage of a riotous funeral procession, "and thanks to the assistance of the U.S. and other independent nations, the people of Sergozia are about to select their leader for the first time.

"The democratic front-runner is this man, Labon Zumari." Jim studied the chiseled features of the dark-haired leader displayed before him, already thinking vaguely how easy it would be for Nicholas to assume his identity if the need should arise...not that the features really mattered much to Nicholas' talent...

"But his path to leadership is being hampered by an opposing faction still faithful to Shebaro and his regime.  
"Zumari once worked in the United States and his wife is Michelle, an American and an outspoken advocate particularly among the women and children of Sergozia."

Jim gazed at the face of the attractive woman, her brown-black hair short-cropped in a pageboy cut, her bright blue eyes asparkle. Yes, she and Zumari were a good match; equal helpings of charisma.

"Five days ago, Michelle Zumari went missing, and each side of this bitter civil contest is blaming the other, making her disappearance a figurative pawn in the upcoming election and rekindling the bitter civil uprising. If she is not found, it will jeopardize the upcoming election as well as peacekeeping efforts in the entire Middle East. Your mission, Jim, should you decide to accept it, is to find Michelle Zumari and restore peace to Sergozia in time for the upcoming election in seven days."

Jim stared intently at the picture frozen at the end of the footage: the Zumaris, smiling broadly, hands clasped and uplifted in victory, as the familiar words brought the recording to a close: "As always, should you or any of your IM force be caught or killed, the Secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions. This disc will self-destruct in five seconds. Good luck, Jim."

As the black box emitted a thin plume of smoke, Jim turned toward the door of the tiny market, preparations for the mission already beginning to take shape in his mind.

tbc...


	4. Chapter 3

Disclaimer:

I do not own either of the Mission: Impossible series or any of the characters therein. I receive no compensation or other tangible benefit from this story. I am just a fan who enjoys taking the team out for an adventure every now and then. :)

* * *

Chapter 3

"Michelle Zumari was a social worker in Portland when she married Labon and accompanied him back to his home country of Sergozia." Jim began the team briefing by punching a few buttons on a keyboard and bringing the brunette's photo into view on the big screen.

"What was he doing in Portland?" asked Max.  
"Well, Zumari's background is in international law," replied Grant, revealing what he had learned by looking into the backgrounds of the chief players. "He came here to work at the U.S. headquarters of an multinational firm, and left with a passionate appreciation for Western politics."

An unspoken glance passed between Grant and Nicholas, for politics was the latter's forte, and this was his cue to pick up the story.  
"He quickly amassed a following of like-minded men and began to protest the status quo," Nicholas continued. "Labon is a charismatic leader, but Michelle has a great knack for reaching people. They're a very effective team."

Nicholas began to pace, then turned to look at his teammates. "So effective, in fact, that once civil war broke out and Shebaro was killed, they caught the attention of Western countries who see this developing democracy as a partner in peacekeeping efforts in the Middle East. Now foreign dignitaries have convinced both sides to call a cease-fire and allow the people of Sergozia to have a general election for the first time in history. Of course, the West is hopeful that Zumari will emerge victorious."

"But now Michelle is missing," chimed in Jim, with a nod of approval toward Nicholas. "And this puts both the cease-fire and the election in jeopardy."  
"So the peace of the entire nation depends upon her safe return," stated Max, running a hand through his dirty blond hair. "She must be one hell of an advocate."

"That's true, Max," answered Jim, "But what makes our mission so crucial is less about her advocacy and more about the circumstances surrounding her disappearance."  
"Each side accusing the other of taking her," observed Shannon.

"Right. Zumari has publicly accused Shebaro's men of abducting Michelle in order to distract him from the upcoming election," explained Nicholas, "while the opposition is convinced that Michelle is fine and in hiding and it's all a sympathy ploy to gain votes for Labon."

"So somebody's lying," muttered Max with a shrug. His blue eyes met Jim's. "What's the plan?"

"Zumari has his campaign headquarters in this building," said Grant, bringing into view a photo of the mid-size gray structure. "Nicholas and I will get inside and gain access to their records...computers, files, whatever. If they are hiding Michelle, we should be able to find out."

"We've uncovered evidence that Shebaro's men took several prisoners during the civil war, and there's no reason to believe that they have been released yet," Jim added. "If they have Michelle, that's where she'll be. Max, it'll be your job to find out." Max nodded.

"What about me?" inquired Shannon.  
A subtle smirk crossed Jim's lips. "Well, Shannon, Zumari insists that Michelle was at home when she disappeared. The truth may be in that house somewhere."

Jim caught Nicholas' eye out of the corner of his own. Nicholas smiled slightly, stood up, and slipped behind Shannon to retrieve something from a small table. Shannon, mesmerized by the twinkle in Jim's eye, didn't notice, but Grant and Max both did, and both broke into wide grins as they recognized what was in Nicholas' hand.

"The Zumaris do have a housekeeper, but she has taken an impromptu vacation," Jim continued, allowing the grin to spread further as Nicholas circled in front of Shannon and handed her a skimpy little black and white maid uniform.  
"I'm sure you'll figure out what to do," Nicholas teased.

Shannon smiled in spite of herself, took the uniform with one hand and gave Nicholas' shoulder a playful swat with the other as the men laughed heartily. Then her face turned serious.  
"Jim? Just playing devil's advocate for a moment...isn't it possible there could be a different explanation for Michelle's disappearance?"

Jim sighed and his shoulders slumped slightly, indicating that he had considered the same. "Shannon, right now we can't rule anything out," he responded. "The only thing we know for sure is that we have to find her - and we have six days."

tbc...


	5. Chapter 4

Disclaimer:

I do not own either of the Mission: Impossible series or any of the characters therein. I receive no compensation or other tangible benefit from this story. I am just a fan who enjoys taking the team out for an adventure every now and then. :)

* * *

Labon Zumari was reading the newspaper and fuming at the latest piece of propaganda when his cell phone rang.  
"Yes? What is it?" he hissed, perhaps a bit too harshly.

"Mister Zumari?"  
"Who wants to know?"  
"This is Tom McAllen," Jim Phelps spoke smoothly into the receiver. "I'm looking into your wife's disappearance and I'd like to ask you some questions."

"I've already talked to the police," Zumari growled. "I have nothing more to say. You need to be chasing after those fools in Shebaro's camp. They are the ones responsible!"

"Hold on, Mister Zumari," Jim soothed, holding up his hand as if it could be seen through the phone. "You haven't talked to me yet. I've just been called in to help liven up this investigation. I can read your file just fine, but I'd rather hear directly from you."

Nicholas looked up at Jim, a hint of concern in his brown eyes, as he listened to the conversation. If Zumari didn't agree to meet with him, it would jeopardize the other part of their plan.  
"I told them Shebaro's men are behind this," Zumari ranted. "They are ignoring me. That's what's wrong with this investigation."

"Then let's meet and you can tell me all about it," Jim replied, pouncing on Zumari's concerns. "I promise you, I will not ignore you."

Zumari said nothing for a moment, apparently mulling this over. "I have a strategy session scheduled with my election committee at 3:00. Can't this wait until another time?"  
"Mister Zumari, it's only 12:30 now. I can be at your place in half an hour, and you'll be at your meeting with time to spare. I really think you should meet with me, sir. The sooner we meet, the sooner I can find Michelle."

After another tense, silent moment, Labon relented. "Fine. You can have thirty minutes."  
"Thank you, Mister Zumari. I will see you shortly."

Jim ended the call and then let out an audible sigh. That had been close. Nicholas smiled at his leader. The man was good, very good indeed.

"He only consented to thirty minutes," Jim advised. "Of course, I will do my best to delay him further, but be aware that you may only have an hour or so."  
"That should be all we need," replied Grant as Nicholas tossed him the car keys. "You ready, Max?"

Max toyed with the collar on his olive-green military uniform - an exact replica of the ones he'd seen Shebaro's men wearing in the video footage at the team briefing. The red sash on his left shoulder designated him as a first lieutenant; this was a rank of privilege among the men and would hopefully get Max into the place where the prisoners were being kept.

The shirt collar was buttoned all the way up. Max was not used to such constriction around the ample muscles of his neck, and was almost sure he'd suffocate before the mission was finished.  
He looked in the mirror and adjusted his hat. Most of his blonde hair was covered. It would have to do.

He inserted the colored contacts that turned his sparkling blue eyes into a muted brown. It was better this way - couldn't have Shebaro's men thinking he was a spy...or, worse, a member of Zumari's camp...so he had to look more like a native Sergozian. But, blast it, he hardly recognized himself!

Of all the men on the team it was Nicholas who resembled the natives most closely. But everybody knew that the brawny soldier role was Max's to play, so he would adjust.

He heard Grant calling his name from the adjacent room, so he adjusted his collar one more time and went to join his friends.

"Max, is that really you?" Grant teased, and Nicholas let out a low whistle.  
"Funny," Max muttered, though not crossly.

Grant was holding in his hand a tiny device that rather closely resembled a pulse oximeter such as one might find in a hospital.  
"It might be tough to speak into our regular communicator without blowing your cover," said Grant. "This one uses Morse code. Try it on, Max." Max slipped the device on to his index finger, vaguely noting the tiny buttons on the underside.

"It's very discreet," said Grant. "Just tap out what you need to say while you're wearing it. We will pick up the signal and be able to respond back to you, which you will feel in the pulse point of your finger."

"Genius," said Max, with an approving smile. "Let's roll."  
"Good luck," said Jim, "and stay in touch."  
"We will," promised Nicholas. "And you, too."

* * *

"Here we are, Max," Grant remarked as he pulled into a side street facing the main highway.  
"I guess it's showtime," Max quipped from the back seat as he frowned into the rear view mirror and loosened his collar for perhaps the tenth time - an event not missed by Nicholas. He turned slightly in his seat to face Max.

"You okay?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.  
"Yeah, I'm fine," Max answered. "It's just hot under here." He flashed a wry grin and reached for the door latch.

"Watch your back, my friend," Grant called after him.  
Max acknowledged his concern with a wave of his hand and moved stealthily to the end of the alley.

* * *

Max had barely reached the alley's end when he heard the familiar sound of marching approaching from the right.  
"Right on schedule," Max thought to himself, silently marveling - not for the first time - how it was that Grant knew all these things.

For every day at this time, a small collective of Shebaro's military regime came marching down this particular stretch of road...a visual presence, a reminder that no uprising would affect the precarious cease-fire.

Max prepared to make his move. He would have to be quick; there was no room for error or hesitation.  
The four first lieutenants would be at the rear of the procession. Max would intercept the one in the very back, closest to the alley.

Max peered out as far as he dared from the alley. He smiled. There was his victim, and the man marching to his right was about one-and-a-half paces ahead. Should give him just enough time.  
He plucked the tiny can of knockout gas from his pocket and waited for just the right moment.  
In one fluid motion, Max pounced out of the alley. He swung his right arm around his victim's neck, stifling any effort to cry out; using his left hand to spray the gas into his victims face. Max's tight grip on the soldier was enough to slow his fall as he lapsed into unconsciousness; in one move Max tossed the soldier into the alley, stripped the man's weapon from his grasp and slung it over his shoulder, and assumed his place in line.

Max glanced at the soldier to his right and smiled to himself. So caught up he had been in the rhythmic pacing that he hadn't noticed a thing. The whole switch had taken less than ten seconds.

Max wasn't worried about the unconscious man he had replaced; Nicholas and Grant would take care of him before he attracted any undue attention. So Max settled in and waited for his opportunity to come about.

* * *

Nicholas and Grant trussed up the unconscious soldier and hid him from immediate view, but where he would be found unscathed within a few hours.  
"Jim," Nicholas spoke into the communicator after they had finished their task, "Max is in position. Everything went fine."

"Good," Jim responded. "I'm approaching Zumari s condo now."  
"We're on our way to his compound," replied Nicholas, and switched off the device without the superfluous goodbye.

tbc...


	6. Chapter 5

Disclaimer:

I do not own either of the Mission: Impossible series or any of the characters therein. I receive no compensation or other tangible benefit from this story. I am just a fan who enjoys taking the team out for an adventure every now and then. :)

* * *

Chapter 5

Jim exited his vehicle and walked up to the front door of Labon Zumari's modest condo. He knocked at the door.

"Who's there?" came a voice from within.

"Tom McAllen," replied Jim, then waited as the door swung open.

"Come in, Mr. McAllen," said Labon Zumari. "Have a seat," he waved at the leather couch in the sizeable sitting room. "Make yourself at home. Can I get you a drink?"

Jim refused politely. Zumari shrugged and walked to the nearby bar, where he began to pour himself a scotch.

Jim took note of Zumari's dark features, which suddenly looked far more thin and haggard than he remembered seeing on the video footage. Jim absently wondered how much drinking he had been doing since his wife's disappearance.

Zumari sat down across from Jim with a sigh. "As I told you on the phone, Mr. McAllen, I only have a few moments. So why don't you tell me what you'd like to know."

"Why don't you start with the day you discovered that your wife was missing."

Zumari quickly recounted how he had returned home that day to find the door locked and his wife nowhere to be found. "Those bastards of Shebaro! They're the ones behind this, I'm sure of it!" he hissed.

"What makes you think so?" Jim crafted his question carefully, so his tone didn't appear accusatory.

"Who else could it be?" Zumari retorted. "They don't want this election to take place - haven't wanted it from the beginning. But their women...they are seeing hope and a future, and they are working to change things!"

Zumari got to his feet and started pacing the floor in front of Jim, the volume of his voice rising. "And that's my Michelle who has done that! She is a threat to their leadership, and they've taken her to shut her up!"

Then, just as quickly as he had lost his temper, Zumari sat hard down onto this chair, covered his face with his hands, and began to cry.

"I only pray they haven't hurt her," he whimpered. "I would give anything to have her back - even give up the election! But Chelle would never allow me to do that. We've worked too hard. She's worked too hard for this."

Jim wasn't sure what to make of Zumari and his rapidly shifting mood. "Mr. Zumari, there are people who think that Michelle is in hiding by your own design."

"To drum up votes?" Zumira was incredulous. "Why would we do that? We have more than enough votes to carry this election. Besides, there's no way my wife would be content in the background, away from the midst of everything. She is passionate about these people, Mr. McAllen. She loves them." His eyes began to tear up again as he spoke.

"What about her safety? You said yourself that your wife is a 'threat' to their leadership. Nobody would blame you - or her - if you decided she wasn't safe out in the spotlight."

Zumari looked at his interviewer. "You don't know my Michelle," he said quietly. "That's not the way she operates."

Jim nodded. "And there's nowhere else she could have decided to go?"

"With what?" responded Zumari. "She took no purse, no phone, no money, no clothes. There's just no other explanation."

Suddenly, Zumari broke into violent sobs which shook his whole body. "Please find her," he begged. "I can't do this without her. Even if I win the election...I can't run this country without her."

In that moment, Jim felt sorry for the young politician and decided to tip his hand just a bit. "I can assure you, Mr. Zumari," he promised, "that right this moment one of my men is undercover in Shebaro's camp. We will find out what's happened to your wife. You have my word."

Zumari smiled at Jim as the doorbell rang. "That'll be the housekeeper," he stated, glancing at his watch. "It's a substitute today, and she's a bit early. And I must get things ready for my meeting later this afternoon."

Jim stood up to leave and accepted Zumari's outstretched hand. "Thank you, Mr. McAllen, for your help."

Jim nodded to Zumari, and then nodded again to Shannon - wearing her maid uniform - as he left the Zumari home.

He got into his vehicle and drove just over a block away, taking up surveillance hidden in a grove of trees. The interview had been shorter than he'd planned, but he just couldn't stand it anymore. He had seen people get upset before, but never like that. Zumari's emotions were all over the map, and he still wasn't quite sure what to make of it. But at least he could tell Grant and Nicholas when Zumari started their way and let them know if they needed Plan B.

* * *

Grant used his lockpicks to meticulously open the front door of Zumari's campaign headquarters. Within thirty seconds, they were inside.

"Nice job," praised Nicholas.

"I am a man of many talents," smirked Grant.

Right away, they located Zumari's mainframe computer as well as two cabinets full of records in an adjacent room. Wordlessly, the two men set about their tasks. They had no time to waste.

After several minutes of silent search, Nicholas paused. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, which were getting sore from reading file after file. He replaced his glasses and stepped next door to inquire about his friend's progress.

"Any luck?"

"Michelle Zumari's touch is all over this campaign," replied Grant. "She's amazing. Not only has she organized rallies and dinners and other major events, but she's used her social work skills to counsel women about things like demanding equal rights and how to escape domestic violence."

Grant looked up at his friend. "It's almost like it's her campaign instead of his."

"Yeah, I got the same impression from the paper files," agreed Nicholas. "And in addition to all the other things, it looks like Michelle is in charge of the financial records as well. But I'm not seeing any evidence that they could be hiding her anywhere. Are you?"

"That's what's so bizarre," answered Grant. "From what I can gather, Michelle has her own login and password. And there's records of her logging in every single day until the day she disappeared. And since then? Nothing."

"Do you think someone is doing the work on her behalf, since she isn't?"

"I honestly can't see that anything's been done since then at all," Grant responded. "Nobody had logged in, either with her information or with anyone else's. And judging by all she's done so far, I doubt they would know how to do anything without her."

"Well, let's keep looking," said Nicholas, glancing at his watch. "We've probably got another half hour or so before Zumari heads this way."

But even after another half hour search, it was clear that they were not going to find what they were looking for. They were just about to throw in the towel when Nicholas heard a faint scratching at the front door.

"We've got company," he whispered.

"Someone's early for the meeting," replied Grant in the same tone. It was only 2 p.m., and they hadn't yet heard from Jim so they were almost sure it wasn't Zumari. Probably one of his campaign advisors, both men reasoned, as their visitor finally got his key to work, turned the knob and opened the door.

Nicholas shot Grant a split-second look, not quite sure how to proceed. But Grant was a step ahead. As the man stared open-mouthed at Nicholas, Grant darted out from behind the door and sprayed him with the knockout gas. The man fell forward, right into Nicholas' arms.

"But, Grant," protested Nicholas as he lowered the man's limp frame to the floor, "he saw me!"

"Relax, buddy," Grant answered with a grin. "He'll sleep for about ten minutes, and when he wakes up he won't remember a thing."

Nicholas and Grant hastily removed all evidence of them having been there. Then they pulled the man's body to the outside of the structure, locked it up, and propped the man gingerly into a half-sitting position outside the front door.

"Are we going to wake him and fabricate an explanation?" asked Nicholas.

"Nah," said Grant slyly. "Let him wonder what happened."

Nicholas chuckled. "Good thing you thought to bring that stuff."

"I never leave home without it," quipped Grant, thumping Nicholas on the back as they hastened to the car.

No sooner had they climbed inside than they heard Jim's voice on the communicator.

"Yeah, Jim?"

"Zumari just left his condo; he should be there in around 20 minutes."

"That's all right, Jim. We're all done anyway."

"Good. Max just signaled me on the Morse Code communicator. He's already been to the POW camp and he's ready for you to pick him up. He said he'd meet you at the alley in fifteen. But be cautious, and stay off the main road; Max said there's some gunfire going on."

"Will do. Tell him we're on our way."

tbc...


	7. Chapter 6

Disclaimer:

I do not own either of the Mission: Impossible series or any of the characters therein. I receive no compensation or other tangible benefit from this story. I am just a fan who enjoys taking the team out for an adventure every now and then. Please review. :)

* * *

Chapter 6

Large beads of sweat rolled off Max's forehead as he marched in the summer Segozian heat. Blast, he hoped he didn't blow his cover.

Finally, the squad reached its destination – Serbano's old headquarters, and the place where his sympathizers still congregated.

"Time to feed the prisoners," the unnamed figurehead announced in his native tongue. Max recognized the word "prisoner" and knew he was probably sending his first lieutenants to the POW camp, thanks to the impromptu lesson in the Sergozian language that Grant had provided the day before, as they were flying out.

Max could hardly believe his luck. He hadn't been undercover yet an hour, and he was already going to see the prisoners!

Max fell easily into step just a couple of paces behind the two men who were leading the way, so as not to appear as if he didn't know where he was headed. He made a mental note of every change in direction, as the first lieutenants descended an elevator to an underground tunnel made of hardened clay, then followed it to a room with a reinforced metal door that the lieutenant in the lead opened with a key.

As the door opened, Max entered the room wordlessly and began to distribute the meager rations he had been carrying. The room couldn't have been more than sixteen foot square, and there were probably a dozen prisoners there - mostly men, but also a handful of women. All of them looked malnourished and frightened.

Max scanned the faces for any sign of the woman he'd been sent to look for. But Michelle Zumari was not in the room.

Max knew that he did not have the reinforcements to rescue the POWs right now, but that would happen before the mission was done. He wished he could somehow let these men and women know that he would soon see that they regained their freedom, but he didn't dare try a signal for fear of blowing his cover. Instead, Max discreetly slipped the Morse Code device on his finger as the lieutenants began to file back out of the room, securing the lock and returning through the tunnel. No one noticed as Max flicked his finger noiselessly against his leg, sending information to Jim regarding the location of the POW camp and the fact that Michelle Zumari was not among the prisoners.

As they returned to base camp, Max realized that he might have to wait until the next patrol before he would be able to slip out of the building, and prayed it would happen sometime that day.

The men had been gathered in base camp for half an hour or so, talking election strategy in their native tongue, just as Zumari must be preparing to do. Max pretended to understand what was being discussed, but his verbal communication came out in grunts and other unintelligible noises.

Suddenly, from outside came the unmistakable sound of gunfire. The military gathering began to scream loudly, and Max recognized Zumari's name. Was it his forces that were firing on Serbano's men? Apparently, they thought so. Instantly, everyone filed out of the base camp and outside to return fire. Max had no choice but to follow.

The gunfire will create a nice diversion, he thought, and I will just slip into the alley and wait for someone to come pick me up. Max slipped on the communicator again to let Jim know he was outside and would be ready to be picked up soon. He warned the team to stay away from the main road because of the gunfire being exchanged.

Jim acknowledged the transmission, and Max felt the response pulsating in his finger, pleading with him to be careful.

Max heard the familiar rat-a-tat-tat of machine gun fire, which got the group's attention, and was just about to make his escape when he felt a sickening thud against his right shoulder. Seconds later, Max felt the warm moisture as it began to spread. Then, the pain hit.

No! Max cried to himself. This can't be happening!  
He reached frantically into his pocket for the communicator, to tell Jim to hurry, but his brain was beginning to feel fuzzy and wouldn't let him complete the action. His head began to spin wildly. He couldn't tell how badly he was injured. He knew that someone would be here soon, but would it be too late?

Max tried desperately to hold on to consciousness, but it was slipping away. As the sound of the crowd faded out, Max's last coherent thought was to wonder why the other lieutenants hadn't tried to help him. He could not have comprehended that he had lost his hat and the others, spotting his blonde hair and thinking he was a Western spy, had made no effort to help him.  
They had left him for dead.

* * *

Grant and Nicholas pulled the black Escalade into the alleyway where they were to rendezvous with their friend. But there was no sign of Max anywhere.

Nicholas frowned and reached for the handheld communicator. "Jim," he began, "Max isn't here."

"He's not responding to my messages, either," replied Jim, teeth clenched.  
"I don't like this," whispered Grant, the tension in his voice matching his leader's. "Especially knowing there was gunfire close by."

"We've got to find him!" vowed Nicholas, tugging at the door latch.  
"Be careful," warned Grant, but Nicholas was already out of the car and Grant could do little but follow.

Nicholas had no way of knowing whether Max was close by. He could be anywhere; they could have taken him anywhere! But he didn't stop to analyze the possibilities, as Grant or Jim might have. He just couldn't shake the conviction that Max wasn't far away - and that he was in trouble.

Nicholas reached the end of the alley and cautiously peered around the corner into the road ahead. He looked left first and saw nothing out of place - the melee from earlier having dissipated several moments before - but as he looked to the right his eyes fell upon the prone figure of his friend. At once all caution was thrown to the wind and he broke into a run.

"MAX!" he hissed with worry, crouching to feel for a pulse. To his relief, the beat was weak but steady. His breathing was labored, and Nicholas loosened Max's tightly buttoned collar to help get more air into his lungs.

"He's alive." The words came out in a sigh of relief as Grant came rushing up.  
It was Grant who noticed the growing pool of blood beneath Max's right shoulder. "He's been shot," he murmured. "We've got to get him back to base."  
"But moving him-"

"No choice," Grant interrupted curtly , and Nicholas knew his friend was right.  
"Give me a hand."  
Grant eased Max's non-injured arm over his shoulders, gently lifting his upper body. Max stirred slightly and groaned.

"Easy, buddy," Grant soothed, "We got you. You're safe now."  
Nicholas grasped Max's legs and together they carried him gingerly to the car. They positioned Max carefully in one of the rear captain's chairs, then Nicholas ran to the other side and climbed in beside him.

Grant stripped off his T-shirt and tossed it to Nicholas, who caught it and began applying firm pressure to Max's wound, which was still bleeding, his other arm cradling Max's chest to steady him in the seat.

Grant reached again in his pocket for the communicator. "Jim."  
"Grant! Is Max all right?" came the instant response.

"He's been shot, but it looks like a through-and-through," answered Grant. "Once I doctor him up I think he'll be okay."  
Grant could hear the heavy sigh - a combination of fear and relief - as his leader keyed the communicator again. "Good. Be careful."

Grant clicked off the device and glanced in the rear view mirror, smiling slightly as he watched Nicholas' lips move inaudibly. Was he whispering to his unconscious friend, calming, soothing...or praying? Grant wasn't sure, but thought absently that they could use a little of both right now.

* * *

By the time they reached base camp, Max had regained consciousness. He exited the vehicle, leaning heavily on Grant's right side, not trusting his own volition which was weak from his blood loss. Nicholas shadowed his injured side, offering support but being careful not to make things worse.

"All right, buddy," Grant said softly as they lowered him into a chair. "I need to get you fixed up, and this ain't gonna feel good."

Grant went to get the first aid kit, and Nicholas took a seat next to his friend. Max, grateful for the support, laid his non-injured hand on Nicholas' forearm. As Grant began removing the heavy collared uniform and cleaning the bullet hole, Max gritted his teeth to keep from crying out in agony. His fingers dug deeply into Nicholas' flesh, who himself winced but remained tight-lipped and did not move his arm away. He knew that Max needed him right now.

"I'm sorry, Max," Grant whispered, then there was silence as he finished his work. Finally, fresh dressing in place, Grant looked up and flashed a pearly white smile at his pal.  
"Well, it was a clean shot, a small wound, and I don't think it did any major damage," he pronounced. "A little rest and you'll heal up quite nicely."

The worst pain now past, Max released the grip he hadn't realized he'd had on Nicholas, whose arm tingled slightly as the circulation returned. Max looked down and he and Nicholas simultaneously noticed the red streaks on the latter's tanned skin. Their eyes met; Max's shimmered with an unspoken apology, and his friend's brimmed with forgiveness, equally unspoken.

"How are you feeling?" Nicholas asked quietly, his slight smile betraying his relief, though still heavy with concern.  
"Better now," Max replied softly, his eyes holding Nicholas' for a moment, then turning his head to meet Grant's steady gaze. "Thanks, guys."  
Grant squeezed Max's left shoulder in reply.

Jim, having overseen the past few moments and now satisfied that his team member would be all right, nodded in satisfaction and then turned his focus back to the mission.  
"So Michelle is not one of Shebaro's POWs, and there's no evidence in Zumari's records of them having hidden her anywhere," he mused. "Lets hope that Shannon has had better luck."

"Otherwise," Grant continued the thought, logging back onto his computer, "we are back at square one, with no clue where to go from here."

tbc...


	8. Chapter 7

Disclaimer:

I do not own either of the Mission: Impossible series or any of the characters therein. I receive no compensation or other tangible benefit from this story. I am just a fan who enjoys taking the team out for an adventure every now and then. Please review. :)

* * *

Chapter 7

It was an hour later when Shannon checked in, right on schedule. Max had taken a couple of painkillers and leaned back in the recliner, and was now sleeping soundly.

"Jim," she began.  
"Go ahead, Shannon," responded Jim instantly. "Did you find anything?"

"Not much," she conceded as she drove toward base camp. "Michelle left her purse behind with her drivers license and cell phone, and her closet doesn't look like any clothes are missing."

"So she didn't go voluntarily," Grant suggested.  
"Well, it wouldn't appear so," replied Shannon, "except for the one thing that does appear to be missing: her passport."

"Passport?" echoed Nicholas. "Are you sure?"  
"Michelle is a meticulous recordkeeper," Shannon replied. "I found a file marked 'Passports' and Labon's was right there, along with his birth certificate and other identifying papers. Everything of Michelle's was there, too, except her passport. And it wasn't in her purse."

"So either she went somewhere out of the country," mused Nicholas, "or someone wanted to make it look that way."  
"I found something else, too. A set of numbers, maybe a phone number. I'll show you when I get there. Give me fifteen."  
"All right, Shannon," said Jim. "Be safe."

"But if she did leave the country," thought Nicholas, his mind still racing with the idea Shannon had just planted there, "wouldn't someone have figured it out by now?"  
"We were so focused on how Zumari and Shebaro are blaming each other," responded Grant, as he began to punch some keys on his computer keyboard. "It certainly didn't occur to **us.** "

There was silence for nearly ten minutes as Grant conducted search after search, using every bit of information at his disposal. Finally, he found what he was looking for, just as Max awoke from his chair and walked over to join his friends. Nicholas turned to smile an unspoken inquiry as to Max's well-being; Max, whose face had regained its color, returned the smile and slapped his buddy's back fondly in response.

"There's no hits on her social security number, or on any credit cards matching her name," reported Grant. "But her passport was recorded by U.S. customs in Portland, Oregon four days ago."  
"Portland. Her hometown," recalled Jim.  
"Exactly. But Michelle Zumari was not listed as a passenger on any flights leaving Sergozia or landing in Portland during that timeframe."

"So she was either forced out of the country," reasoned Jim, "or she didn't want anyone to know where she went."  
"Yes. With either scenario the flight could have been booked under an assumed name, and the ticket purchased with cash," Grant replied. "But unless someone knew how to forge a passport..." Here Grant paused to wink at his friends, for they knew he did possess that knowhow and sometimes used it on a mission... "they would have had to show Customs the real thing."

"It certainly seems as though she was taken against her will," said Nicholas pensively. "But if so, why take her to Portland, where people could recognize her?"  
"Let's think outside the box for a moment and assume that she did choose to leave on her own," suggested Jim, starting to pace as he often did when his brain kicked into high gear. "That would explain Portland. But why now, when she has so much invested in this election?  
And why leave in such a hurry you forget all of your belongings behind?"

Max sighed at the puzzle before them. "Well, regardless of how she got there, we have to find her, but she could be anywhere within a four days' journey of Portland by now," he mumbled. "So where do we start?"  
"Let's just hope that Shannon's numbers have the answer to that question," replied Grant.

As if on cue, the door opened and Shannon walked into view, prompting all four men to greet her with wide smiles. "Someone say my name?" she asked, winking at Grant.  
"Back from your domestic duties?" Max teased, feeling more like his old self and lapsing back into his familiar sense of humor.

Shannon drew a hand back to swat his wounded shoulder, and Max quickly blocked her retort and stepped aside. Confused - for no one had yet told her what had happened to Max - Shannon lifted her eyebrows, silently demanding an explanation. Nicholas quickly filled her in, and her eyes brimmed with worried tears.

"Oh., Max, I'm so sorry! Are you okay?"  
"I'm fine, Shannon," Max assured her with a smile. "Tell us about your other clue."

Shannon retrieved a small Post-it pad from her pocket and handed it to Grant. "I found this lying beside the nightstand. It looks like someone wrote some numbers on the top sheet and then ripped it off. But they left an impression here."  
"Good girl," Grant complimented. He retrieved a pencil from his desk drawer and scribbled lightly over the faint impression. Soon, a series of ten digits emerged clearly from the paper.

"It is a phone number," said Shannon, awed.  
"Yes," agreed Grant, "and if I'm not mistaken, it's a Portland area code."

"Wonder who it belongs to?"  
"There's one way to find out."  
Grant picked up his cell phone and dialed the number. A few seconds later, he covered the speaker with his hand and spoke to his curious teammates.

"The Carruthers Center," he explained. "Automated menu."  
"The Carruthers Center," echoed Nicholas. "A facility? Could someone have had Michelle institutionalized against her will?"  
Grant listened wordlessly for a few more seconds, then ended the call.  
"If Michelle is at the Carruthers Center, I don't think anyone forced her there," he said quietly. "It's a shelter for victims of domestic violence."

* * *

For several seconds there was stunned silence in the room as everyone processed what Grant had just discovered, Finally, Max spoke.  
"A domestic violence shelter?" he repeated. "Why on earth would she go there?"

"There's only two reasons," mused Nicholas. "It's either a professional capacity...or a personal one."  
"But surely you don't believe that Labon is abusing his wife?" asked Shannon to nobody in particular.

"I agree it seems unlikely based on what we know about the Zumaris," answered Jim noncommitally.  
Grant had remained quiet, feverishly punching buttons on his keyboard, doing what he does best. Finally he spoke.

"Well, if she's there professionally, she certainly isn't bothering to keep in touch with anyone," he informed the group. "I was able to pull the phone records from the Carruthers Center. In the past week, there have been no calls to or from Zumari's home, campaign headquarters, or cell phone. And we already know she left her own cell phone here."

"Which means that, in all likelihood, Zumari really doesn't know where his wife is," Max deduced.  
"And we already know that he supports his wife's advocacy," Nicholas added, "so there's no reason she should have to hide if that's what she's doing."

"Except that it's election time," Grant chimed in. "Which brings us back to Jim's question from earlier: why now?"  
"She just couldn't be there in a professional role," Nicholas said emphatically, as he paced the floor in frustration. "Nothing about it makes sense!"

"But if that's the case, that leaves only one explanation," replied Shannon, who suddenly realized that Jim had been silent since his noncommittal response several moments earlier. She sought out Jim's eyes with her own. "Jim?" she inquired softly. "Jim, did something happen at your interview with Zumari? What haven't you told us?"

Jim let out a heavy sigh as all eyes in the room turned to the team leader. "I didn't think it was relevant," he said quietly, "but now I'm not so sure."  
"What is it, Jim? What did he say?"  
"It wasn't what he said, Nicholas, it was the way he said it," Jim replied. "One minute, he was seething with anger at Shebaro's men and yelling at the top of his lungs, the next minute he was crying like a baby, and then he was back to being furious again."

"Emotionally unstable," ventured Grant.  
"Combined with a charismatic personality..." Max added.  
"A recipe for volatility," concluded Nicholas. "Jim, do you think Labon Zumari is capable of physical abuse?"  
"I certainly was uncomfortable being in the same room with him," responded Jim. "So, given the right circumstances, I'd say yes, I do."

"But how are we going to find out for sure?" asked Max.  
"There's only one way," answered Shannon, her eyes meeting Jim's and knowing he was thinking the same thing she was.

"We've got to get inside the Carruthers Center," affirmed Jim.  
"I've got to get inside there," clarified Shannon. "Only a female will get Michelle Zumari to open up."  
"You're right, Shannon," admitted Jim, "but you're not going by yourself," he added protectively.  
"Fine with me," replied Shannon. "So let's come up with a plan."

tbc...


	9. Chapter 8

Disclaimer:

I do not own either of the Mission: Impossible series or any of the characters therein. I receive no compensation or other tangible benefit from this story. I am just a fan who enjoys taking the team out for an adventure every now and then. Please review. :)

A/N: Sensitive, emotionally intense topic ahead...

* * *

Chapter 8

The next morning, Shannon and Grant boarded a plane to Portland . The others stayed in Sergozia, both to keep an eye on the tense situation, and to give Max a chance to heal some more.

It was a long flight, and by the time they landed, it was late in the day. Not too late, however, for Grant to do some work with his laptop.

"I've hacked into the mainframe computer at the Carruthers Center," Grant reported after several minutes of quiet concentration, "and cross-referenced the names of the women staying there with the names on the passenger manifest from the flight that landed in Portland five days ago. The only name that matches is one Kimberly Garrett."

"Then that has to be the name she's using," said Shannon.

"Right. And according to this, there are several independent counselors that make regular on-site visits to talk to the women and help them get back on their feet. That will be your way in."

Grant retrieved a makeshift photo ID from his printer, placed it in a lanimated badge holder, and handed it to Shannon. The name was Carla Smith, Clinical Social Worker, and the picture was Shannon's.

She smiled at Grant. "Well, I just hope Carla Smith is a good counselor."

* * *

The next day, Shannon arrived at the Carruthers Center. She introduced herself at the front desk. "I received a call from a Ms. Kimberly Garrett about meeting her here today. Could you point me to her room, please?"

"Could I see your name badge just a moment, Ms. Smith?" the receptionist said coldly. "I need to log you in."

That was odd, she thought. Of all of the ladies at the Carruthers Center, Kimberly Garrett was the only one who hadn't seen a counselor yet. She had refused multiple times. So how was it that she had initiated contact with this woman? Or was there something amiss?

She disappeared into the adjoining room and began to dial the number that was listed on the name badge in her hand.

Grant 's cell phone rang. He looked down and smiled as he recognized the caller. "Portland Counseling Associates, how may I assist you?" he answered.

"Hello, I need to speak with a Carla Smith...?"

"Ah, yes, Ms. Smith is one of our social workers, but I'm sorry, she is not here today. The board says she's signed out to the Carruthers Center all morning. May I take a message?"

"No, that's all right. I'll call back later. Thank you very much."

Satisfied that the young social worker was who she claimed, the icy receptionist handed back her badge and pointed her in the direction of Kimberly Garrett's room.

Shannon knocked softly at the door. "Ms. Garrett?" she ventured.

"Who is it?" came the voice from within.

"I'm Carla Smith. I'm a social worker. May I come in?"

"I don't need to talk to a social worker," she answered. "I don't want to talk to anybody."

"That's fine, Ms. Garrett. You don't have to talk to me, but I'd like to let you know about the services we can offer you if you decide you want them later on. Can I at least come in? I'll do all the talking if you want."

A few tense moments passed. Grant listened intently through the device hiding inside Shannon's brooch, waiting anxiously to find out if Michelle Zumari was going to open the door. Finally, there was a click, and the door opened slowly.

"I suppose that would be all right. You can come in for a few moments."

Shannon smiled at the young woman standing in front of her. There was no doubt this was Michelle Zumari, but this lady was diametrically different from the one she had seen on the video Jim had shown them a few days ago. THAT Michelle had been vibrant, confident, and charismatic; the person who now stood in front of Shannon looked broken, defeated, and very vulnerable.

"Please, sit down, Ms. Smith," she gestured to a chair as she claimed one across the room.

"Thank you," responded Shannon.

"So what services do you all have to offer?" Michelle asked, clearly wishing to take Shannon at her word and sidestep any notion of talking about her own issues.

Shannon chose her words carefully. "Well, given the nature of this facility, we can make certain assumptions about what might have brought you here," she began, "and we know you're here because this is a safe place. But you don't want to stay here forever, do you?"

Michelle shook her head slowly.

"Different women in shelters choose different paths," Shannon continued. "Some seek counseling for themselves and their partners, to try to make things work at home. Some choose to start a new life altogether, away from their partners completely. And some choose to be somewhere in the middle. Whichever path you choose, we can help you get there."

"I can't go back." Michelle's voice was so quiet that Shannon could barely hear it, eyes downcast. "Not now that I've finally gotten away."

Then, her head snapped back up to face Shannon, apparently realizing that she had spoken out loud. "Thank you for the information, Ms. Smith. I will call you if I need anything more."

Shannon's heart came up in her throat. She couldn't lose this opportunity. Her mind worked feverishly. "Ms. Garrett," she said softly, playing a hunch, "I'll bet you haven't ever told your story to anyone. Would that be correct?"

Michelle nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly.

"What are you frightened of?"

As Shannon watched her face, she could see tiny tears peeking from the corners of her eyes, breaking her stoic facade. It was several moments before she spoke.

"Being judged...being forced to go back home..." Michelle's eyes met Shannon's, and suddenly the tears began to roll down her face. "And I'm afraid that once I stop talking, I won't be able to stop."

Shannon felt her stomach lurch in sympathy. She cautiously reached out to lay a hand on the woman's arm, testing the gesture. To her relief, Michelle did not pull away.

"Ms. Garrett," Shannon said softly,

"it's time. I promise you, I won't judge you, I won't ask you to do anything you don't want to do, and I will listen for as long as you need me to."

Michelle smiled faintly at the woman who sat across the room, scrutinizing her features, searching for a reason to distrust but finding nothing but genuine compassion. Did she dare hope this was someone she could confide in? She had kept things to herself for so long...so very, very long...

Finally, Michelle took a deep breath, nodded, and began.

"I met my husband five years ago." Michelle smiled a bit at the memory. "It was instant attraction for both of us. He just has one of those personalities that sort of sucks you in. I was young and spunky and adventurous, and so when he left Portland to go back to his home country, I was eager to go with him."

Michelle's smile abruptly faded. "Unfortunately, that's when things started to change.

"My husband has a shrewd political mind, and wants to change the world. But he thinks everyone should listen to him, and sometimes they don't."

Michelle dropped her gaze. "One day, he organized a meeting, and it didn't go well. He came home upset and angry. I tried to help him look at it rationally, to be the voice of reason, but he wouldn't hear of it. That's the first time he hit me."

A moment of silence passed, which made Shannon extremely uncomfortable. "Oh, Ms. Garrett," she began.

"Please, call me Kimberly." She hesitated briefly, then added, "On second thought, since we're being honest, my real name is Michelle. Nobody else here knows that."

Grant smiled as he listened. Good girl, Shannon, he thought. She's beginning to trust you.

"Michelle," Shannon repeated with a smile, careful not to appear as if she had known that all along. "Your secret is safe here. Please, go on."

"I should have left him that day," Michelle chided herself. "I mean, I'm a social worker, for heaven's sake! I teach women not to put up with this stuff!"

"But you loved him," ventured Shannon gently, "and you hoped it wouldn't happen again."

"That's right," replied Michelle, and Shannon breathed a sigh of relief that she'd gotten it right. "Plus, I was all alone in a strange country I knew nothing about. I didn't have anyone except Labon. Where would I have gone?"

"It must have been very hard for you, not having any support," said Shannon quietly, trying to show empathy without sounding cliche.

"Yes," answered Michelle. "But he wasn't that way all the time. After that incident, he didn't hit me for quite a long time, but he sought to control me in other ways. I just didn't realize it at the time."

"What do you mean?"

"He could tell I was missing my work," responded Michelle, "so he encouraged me to take on a bigger role in his political affairs. I loved working with oppressed people," Michelle continued, and Shannon could see the sparkle of passion in her eyes. "Plus, when Labon is on his A game, he is unbelievable. I loved seeing that side of him.

"As time went on and his political career took off, it became more and more stressful for him...and he got more and more abusive."" Michelle's voice was quiet. "He would come home furious and take it out on me because I was there. But five minutes later, he was on his knees, crying and saying he was sorry, begging forgiveness, and I would believe him."

Michelle looked up and met Shannon's eyes again. "I can't justify it now, Ms. Smith, and I know it sounds horrible. But I understand now why the abused women I counsel refuse to leave their partners."

Shannon flinched slightly at Michelle's use of her alias, but she knew that she couldn't yet risk this fledgling trust to break cover. That could come later if needed.

"I began to get more and more involved in Labon's campaign," Michelle recalled, "organizing more and more events and participating in more and more activities. And the biggest reason was because out in the public eye was the one place he wasn't beating me." Michelle looked very sad. "He has left so many bruises, but of course they were always under my clothes. Never where anyone could see."

The tears began to flow again unrelenting. "If someone had seen something, said something, maybe I would have had the courage to leave sooner."

* * *

"We should have heard from Grant by now," said Jim to his two teammates, as he dialed Grant's cell phone number.

Grant looked at his phone as it rang and cursed to himself. He'd gotten so caught up in the conversation he'd forgotten to check in with Jim. He answered on the second ring.

"Grant," Jim began, "how's it going?"

"Shannon made contact with Michelle," reported Grant. "She's managed to gain her trust and they've been talking for over an hour. Jim, Michelle has got one hell of a story. I don't know how much longer Shannon will be, but we will fill you in when she gets back."

* * *

"I didn't realize that by being so involved with the campaign, I was making myself indispensable to him," Michelle was saying. "Now he can't do anything without me."

"And you felt even more trapped." Shannon spoke for the first time in several minutes. At Michelle's nod, Shannon learned forward and laid a hand on her arm. "But, Michelle," she said gently, "if he is capable of doing those things to you, does he need to be running a country?"

"I know you won't understand this, Ms. Smith-"

"Carla, please."

"Carla. I know you won't understand, but Labon will be a fabulous leader. He's just a horrible husband. These people have been oppressed for generations. Labon will change things for the better. That's why I left the way that I did. I don't want people in Sergozia to know. They love him there. I don't want to ruin his reputation or the election that he's worked so hard for."

Shannon nodded, for she could see Michelle's sincerety. "So when is the election?" Shannon asked, pretending she didn't know.

"Three days," Michelle replied with a wry smile.

"And you just got here?"

"Less than a week ago."

"So why now?"

Michelle hesitated for a moment, then sighed heavily. Fresh tears came to her eyes. "Three months ago, after many meetings with different dignitaries, we found out that the election was going to take place. Labon was so happy...so relaxed. The abuse stopped for a while, and it was almost like old times, like when we first met."

Once again, Michelle cast her eyes downward. "I found out I was pregnant. I was so excited. But when I told Labon, he became enraged. He said he couldn't deal with a baby right now, with everything else going on. He demanded to know why I hadn't been more careful."

Shannon felt her stomach lurch once again, anticipating what was coming. "He beat the hell out of me that night and I had a miscarriage. That was the day I decided to leave."

Michelle looked back up at Shannon, perhaps expecting to see either disgust or condemnation. This was the first time she'd mentioned the miscarriage; Labon had forbidden her to ever speak of it. But she saw nothing in Shannon's eyes except empathy.

"Labon barely lets me out of his sight these days, so I had to work on my escape plan bits and pieces at a time. Finally, last Thursday, it all came together. We were supposed to have a gala that night, and Labon was called to an impromptu strategy session. Ordinarily he would have insisted I go with him, but I told him I still had some things to do to get ready for the gala. As soon as he was out of sight, I caught a cab to the airport and got on a plane."

Michelle sighed, feeling as if a huge weight had left her shoulders. "There's nothing more I can do for him now to prepare for this election," she concluded, "but I knew that if I had waited, I would have been stuck there in the First Lady's role forever. There would have been no escape."

Shannon no longer needed to ask her which path she wanted to take; she knew. "Michelle," Shannon said softly, choosing her words carefully, "what if I told you that I have the resources in place to help you start a brand new life?"

"I'd like that very much," Michelle said gratefully, her voice barely audible. "I came back to Portland because I know this city, and I came to this place because I've been here before, working with ladies in the same situation. But I can't stay here; I know too many people who will ask too many questions. I need a clean break. I just don't know how to stop looking over my shoulder. I'm so afraid that someday Labon is going to find me."

"Why don't you leave that to me?" smiled Shannon, and Michelle returned her smile.

"Can I come back and see you tomorrow?"

"Of course," assured Michelle. Then, after a beat, she asked, "Carla, is it okay if I hug you?"

Shannon grinned and embraced her new friend sincerely.

"Thank you, for everything."

"I'll see you tomorrow," Shannon replied, and slipped out the door.

tbc...


	10. Chapter 9

Disclaimer:

I do not own either of the Mission: Impossible series or any of the characters therein. I receive no compensation or other tangible benefit from this story. I am just a fan who enjoys taking the team out for an adventure every now and then. Please review. :)

* * *

Chapter 9

A half hour later, the door to the hotel suite opened, and Shannon entered. Grant looked up from his computer and smiled his greeting. Shannon did not acknowledge or return his smile, instead sinking down into a chair with a heavy sigh and closing her eyes.

Grant 's smile faltered for a moment. "You okay?"

Shannon opened her eyes and looked at Grant. "That was the most difficult and emotionally exhausting thing I have ever done."

"I'll bet," Grant agreed empathetically, then his smile returned. "But you were terrific."

Shannon's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Grant, she's been through so much! We have to help her!"

Grant got up from his computer chair and walked over to Shannon, putting his arms around her as she started to sob quietly. "I know," he soothed. "We will."

Shannon laid her head on Grant 's strong shoulder for a moment, then withdrew from the embrace with an appreciative smile.

"The gang checked in while you were gone," Grant said softly. "I told them we'd link up and fill them in when you got back."

Shannon looked at Grant, her eyes still pink from crying. "Grant," she pleaded, "I, um...I need a minute."

"Sure," he replied understandingly. Take all the time you need. Let me know when you're ready."

* * *

After about twenty minutes, Shannon emerged from the bathroom, looking refreshed. She nodded to Grant, and he fired up his computer to begin the web conference.

After exchanging greetings, Grant and Shannon brought the others up to date on what Shannon had learned from Michelle. Shannon did the majority of the talking, but Grant was there for support. In fact, Grant was the one who explained about Michelle's miscarriage, for Shannon became overcome with emotion and couldn't bring herself to say it.

When they were finished, there was silence for a few seconds.

"Bastard," Nicholas practically spat the word out of his mouth in disgust.

"Second that," Max chimed in.

"I think we all agree with you, pal," said Grant.

"And this is the kind of man the West wants to run Sergozia?" demanded Nicholas.

"Well, nobody knows the truth about Labon Zumari except Michelle...and now the five of us," reminded Jim.

"True," conceded Nicholas, his eyes flashing fire, "but now that I know, I don't think I can support that part of the mission."

"I understand how you feel, buddy," Grant said gently, "but you have to remember what's going to happen if Zumari doesn't win the election."

"Yes. Sergozia will go back to being a dictatorship," agreed Jim.

"And locking up prisoners whenever they feel like it," Max added, his mind on the POWs that Jim had promised him they would rescue before the mission ended.

"The very sort of oppression thatMichelle has worked so hard to fight," declared Shannon. "She may hate how he's treated her, but she wholeheartedly supports his political agenda."

"But still," Nicholas persisted, "she can't be thrilled that the man who assaulted her and killed their unborn child is about to take office-"

"It's what she wants, Nicholas!" Shannon interrupted, surprising herself at the force and volume of her words. "She made that clear. To deny her that, after all of her work and all she's been through, is like a slap to the face."

A shudder went through her body at her friend's mention of the miscarriage, and Grant laid a steady hand on her back in consolation.

"I get that," responded Nicholas, his voice a tad softer this time, "but isn't there someone else from Zumari's camp who can lead?"

"In two days?" Grant returned. "Because, basically, that's all we have until the election, and it's taken them four years to get this far."

Jim, sensing that the circular argument could go on and on without some intervention, walked over to lay a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Nicholas," he said gently, "we all appreciate how you feel about this one. But if we tip our hand with what we know about Zumari, we blow the election completely and rekindle the civil war."

"And place other lives at risk," Max put in.

"This is the only way," stressed Jim. Then he stopped talking until Nicholas, who'd been averting his eyes, looked up and caught Jim's gaze. "Nicholas," Jim said softly, "I don't like this any more than you do, but we still have work to do, and we need your help."

Nicholas hesitated. He was still frustrated that a man like Zumari would be escaping punishment, but he could not let his friends down. Finally he signed and nodded faintly. "All right."

Jim's hand gave a light squeeze where it rested on his shoulder, and Max flashed him a smile of relief and understanding.

"Thank you, Nicholas," whispered Shannon, her voice teeming with a combination of respect for his position and gratitude that they still had his commitment.

"So what about Michelle?" Max inquired. "How do we help her get away from Zumari?"

"She's terrified that he will come looking for her," answered Shannon. "So whatever we come up with has to take that chance out of the equation."

"And we can't bring her back here to face him again," Grant observed. "Not now that she's safely away."

"We have to get her a new identity." Nicholas was back to the mission now, his brain, as usual, working at breakneck speed. "It's the only thing that will tie up all the loose ends and keep him from finding her." He looked askance at Grant. "Can you pull that off?"

Grant flashed a grin. "Are the summers hot in Sergozia?"

Max rolled his eyes, remembering that stuffy uniform he had been in while undercover. Grant saw the gesture and recalled the same…as well as the scary way Max's undercover assignment had ended. "By the way, Max, how are you feeling?" he asked quickly.

"I'm good, Grant," Max responded with a slight smile, his cheeks flushing just a bit.

"We'll have to ask Michelle how much of a new identity she wants," mused Shannon. "She has that social work education and she's so passionate about her advocacy; she may want to keep that."

"I can take care of it," Grant nodded.

"Jim," Max questioned, "both sides of the election are going to be asking for an explanation for Michelle's disappearance, especially if she doesn't come back home. So how are we going to make that work?"

"That's a good question, Max," replied Jim. "It has to be something permanent, that can explain the fact that she's been gone for an entire week."

"And something that both sides can experience firsthand, otherwise they will never believe that the opposition didn't have something to do with it," Max mused.

"I may have an idea," said Grant, with a hint of craftiness in his voice. "But you guys will have to wait for us to get back to do most of it."

"That will give us exactly one day until the election," observed Nicholas.

"We will certainly have our work cut out for us," stated Jim. "I guess we'd all better rest up while we can."

"There is one thing you can do while you're waiting for Shannon and me," Grant said teasingly. "And it sounds like a job for Max."

"What's that?" Max responded, a crooked grin curling his face.

"Steal a taxi."

* * *

The next morning, Shannon placed an early telephone call to Michelle Zumari's room. She wanted to let her new friend know that Grant would be coming along with her today.

Knowing how victims of domestic abuse can sometimes be skittish about strangers, especially of the opposite gender, Shannon did not want Michelle to be unpleasantly surprised.

Grant's identification and cover story about being Carla Smith's supervisor passed the receptionist's test as easily as Shannon's had the day before – and without the attempted telephone verification. She did not even question the briefcase that Grant was carrying in his hand.

Shannon knocked softly at the door, and Michelle welcomed them both warmly. As Shannon suspected, Michelle verified that, yes, she did want a new identity, but she would really like to keep her social work background. Grant reached into his briefcase, extracting a file folder filled with documents he had laboriously put together the evening before.

"This is all you'll need to start your brand new life," smiled Grant. "New birth certificate, Social Security card, passport, and a dossier so impressive that you'll be a shoo-in for any counseling job you should choose to apply for."

Michelle looked breathlessly at the papers in her hand, scarcely daring to believe what she was seeing. "Oh, my God," she gasped. "Is this for real?"

"It's real," Shannon assured her. "You don't ever have to go back there again. And he will never be able to find you."

Tiny tears began to trickle down Michelle's cheeks. "Thank you feels so inadequate for all that you have done, but it's all I know to say." A pause. Then, "Is it okay if I hug you both?"

Michelle stepped into the embraces of first Grant, and then Shannon. As she withdrew from Shannon's arms, Michelle met her eyes and whispered quietly. "Something tells me you're not really Carla Smith, but that's okay. I don't know who you are, how you found me, or why, but I will never forget you."

Shannon smiled at Michelle through the tears she could no longer hold back. "My real name is Shannon," she answered.

"Shannon," Michelle repeated. "It's so nice to meet you."

"So what's next for you?" Shannon asked.

"Oh, I don't know," Michelle sighed. "The world is my oyster now. I'll probably hang around here a day or two and figure out where I'd like to go."

"Well, take care of yourself, Rebecca," Shannon smiled, placing a slight emphasis on her new name.

'Rebecca' smiled back. "I will. You, too. And thank you again."

The women shared one final embrace, and then Shannon and Grant left for the airport to catch a plane back to Sergozia. They had a mission to finish.

tbc...


	11. Chapter 10

Disclaimer:

I do not own either of the Mission: Impossible series or any of the characters therein. I receive no compensation or other tangible benefit from this story. I am just a fan who enjoys taking the team out for an adventure every now and then. Please review. :)

* * *

Chapter 10

Max's wristwatch alarm beeped at 5 am. Max stifled a curse, rolled out of bed, and trudged to the bathroom... quietly, so he wouldn't wake his sleeping friends. Ten minutes later, he emerged...and as he opened the bathroom door, he nearly ran headlong into -  
"Nicholas!" Max hissed, startled but trying to keep his voice quiet. "What the hell are you doing?" he asked, noting that his friend was fully dressed.

"Going with you," Nicholas answered.  
"That won't be necessary."  
"Look, Max. You're going out to steal a car in a strange country when it's still dark out. Just what part of that did you not think would be dangerous? Besides," Nicholas' voice softened slightly, "it was just four days ago you were shot."

"I'm fine, Nicholas."  
"Maybe," he conceded, "but humor me, all right?"  
"Do you think I'm not capable of doing this job alone?" For a moment, Max's eyes flashed fire at the idea that someone might think he needed to be babysat. He gazed at Nicholas, but all he saw in the latter's brown eyes was genuine concern.  
"Of course you're capable," Nicholas replied with a warm smile. "I just thought you might like some company. Plus, someone's got to drive the car back once we steal the taxi."

Max tried hard to be aggravated at being fussed over, but the truth was that he was touched by the simple gesture. Plus he relished every opportunity to work side by side with his friend - not to mention the fact that Nicholas was right.  
Max flashed a grin and tilted his head toward the door. "Come on, then," he urged, and the two men set about their task.

* * *

The taxis in Sergozia were busy round the clock, to accommodate non-traditional work schedules. After several minutes of driving, Max and Nicholas spotted a cab parked in front of a mid-sized office building. The building, having closed up hours ago, was deserted, and the cabbie sat snoozing in the driver's seat. The street was dark; there were no street lights close by. They would make their move here.

They parked the car and stealthily approached the driver's side. It seemed counterproductive to rouse the cabbie just to put him back to sleep again, but Max had to make sure the knockout gas had done its job. Quickly Nicholas took off the cabbie's shirt and tossed it to Max, and bound the cabbie's hands and feet while Max put it on. As Nicholas applied the gag, he looked up at Max and stifled a laugh. Even in the dark, it was obvious that the cabbie's shirt was several sizes too small for the muscular Australian.  
"It had to be a small guy," Max quipped.

"Well, it doesn't really matter," Nicholas chuckled as Max pulled him to his feet and they carried the cabbie safely off the road where someone would find him. "Grant said you just have to look the part from afar, and you'll be sitting inside the cab the whole time."

"So what are we looking for again?" Max asked, as he slid behind the driver's seat - after scooting it back as far as it would go - and Nicholas climbed into the cab beside him.  
"A field, off the side of the road somewhere between Zumari's home and his political compound, observable but not too accessible, and large enough for a cab," Nicholas responded, recalling the few sketchy details Grant had shared with the team about his plan to resolve Michelle's disappearance among the people of Sergozia. "Preferably one that looks like a vehicle could have run off the road."

As dawn approached and the first fingers of sunlight began to peek over the horizon, they saw it. Over the right side of the road was an embankment, which went down about forty feet before leveling out at the bottom. There were no buildings for at least a quarter mile on either side.  
"I think this is it," said Max.  
"You're right," answered Nicholas.  
Max glanced at his watch. "Time to head back," he advised. "Jim should be picking up Grant and Shannon at the airport right now."

* * *

After the five team members reconnected amidst hugs and handshakes, Grant revealed the details of his plan and they set it in motion.  
Less than an hour later, Shannon was standing on the sidewalk outside Zumari's condo. She wore a short-cropped black wig, and anyone looking at her from a distance would have thought it was Michelle Zumari.

Grant stood on the balcony of the apartment complex across the street. "Okay, Max," Grant spoke into the wireless mic that connected to earpieces worn by both Max and Shannon, "start driving. Shannon, Max is approaching you in the taxi. Flag him down and climb in."  
Grant filmed everything with his video camera as the scripted role play took place. "Okay, that's a wrap. Meet us out at the field. We'll be right behind you."

Grant climbed into the car with Jim and Nicholas, and they took off after the taxi.  
"Grant," Nicholas said thoughtfully, "won't someone be able to identify the cab in the video and figure out it was just stolen this morning?"  
Grant smiled. "I did some checking. This particular cab company is the largest in Sergozia. It employs two hundred cabbies and delivered 1500 fares the day Michelle left. In addition," he continued with a twinkle in his eye, "an average of ten cabs are stolen from the company every day. By the time we're done with our documentation, no one will make the connection."

Jim spotted the cab and pulled the Escalade behind it. Max and Shannon had gotten out of the cab and Max was staring nervously down the embankment.  
Grant walked up beside him and laid a hand on Max's left shoulder.

"I can totally do this part if you want, pal," he offered gently.  
"Grant, would you stop worrying? I told you, I'm fine. I can handle it," Max chided, just as gently. "You ready?"  
"Ready," Grant replied. "There's a rope that we've tied to the Escalade. Once you reach the bottom, you can climb back up that way."

Max, with a sigh, climbed into the driver's seat and slammed the door. "Be careful," Shannon called after him as he began to move forward.  
Max tried to ease the taxi down the bank, but it gathered speed quicker than he anticipated, and he had to go faster to keep up with it. Otherwise, he would lose control of the cab entirely and it would go flipping end over end.

His friends watched nervously from the roadside, knowing Max was being jostled about. Finally, he reached the level part of the field and stopped the cab.  
Max put the car in park and sat still for a moment. It was a moment too long for Grant, who keyed the wireless mic worriedly. "Max?"  
Max just had an earpiece, not a microphone, so he could not respond; but he got out of the taxi, appearing unscathed. Grant and the others sighed in relief as Max grasped the rope and began to pull himself up. Grant and Nicholas waited beside the Escalade, and each extended a hand to help as Max reached the roadside.

"You all right, partner?" Grant asked anxiously.  
"Never better," Max lied. He was breathing heavily and his face was flushed. Grant silently chided himself, for it was his idea that Max drive the cab. Of course, none of the other men could have done it; Grant had to run his fancy video equipment, and all three men had highly visible roles to play later. If they were to pull off the con, they could not risk being recognized as the cab driver if someone were paying close attention to the video.

Grant snapped back to the task at hand. "Just one more job, buddy," he soothed, "then you can rest for a while." There was no doubt the last act was Max's. Nobody else on the team was half as good with a flamethrower.  
"Aim mostly for the passenger side," Grant advised, as he handed Max the device. It was a special kind of weapon; there would be no huge attention-grabbing explosion. But with the special accelerant that Max had placed in the cab, the car would smoulder until it was reduced to ashes. It would take less than two hours to burn.

As usual, Max's aim was perfect.  
He slid the weapon off his shoulder and into Grant 's waiting hands. The shift in balance, combined with Max's already weakened condition, caused him to stagger a little. Nicholas reached out to steady him, then led him to the rear passenger door of the Escalade. Max offered little resistance.

"Easy, Max. Sit here and rest," Nicholas said gently.  
Max opened his mouth to insist once again that he was fine, but Nicholas held up his hand in protest. "No arguments," he said flatly. Max closed his mouth again, not feeling much like arguing anyway.

The others climbed into the Escalade. Jim took the wheel, while Grant eased into the passenger seat and peered worriedly at his friend through the rear view mirror.  
"He'll be fine, Grant," reassured Jim. "He's going to be just fine."

tbc...


	12. Chapter 11

Disclaimer:

I do not own either of the Mission: Impossible series or any of the characters therein. I receive no compensation or other tangible benefit from this story. I am just a fan who enjoys taking the team out for an adventure every now and then. Please review. :)

* * *

Chapter 11

Back at base camp, Max laid back in the recliner to rest, and Shannon insisted on fussing over him. Grant got busy editing the video footage he had captured of 'Michelle's' taxi ride. Nicholas watched intently.

"So, Grant," he began, "not to be a skeptic, but-"

"Nicholas, you're always a skeptic," Grant interrupted teasingly.

Nicholas grinned in retort. "How can this possibly pass for footage of Michelle, when we filmed it this morning and she went missing in the afternoon?"

"Ah, but that's the beauty of this camera," Grant replied. "If you set it to 'surveilance' mode, the footage will look like that dark, grainy, greenish tinted surveillance video that you see on the news - regardless of what time of day it's taken."

Nicholas shook his head, impressed. The intricacies of Grant 's gadgetry never ceased to amaze him.

"Just about finished, Jim," Grant announced.

"Good," Jim replied, glancing at his watch. It was nearly 10 am. They had made good time this morning.

"Now, to call Zumari and tell him I need to talk to him about what happened to his wife."

"You mean WE need to talk to him," Grant corrected. Jim raised one eyebrow in an unspoken question. "Jim, the man is volatile."

"And dangerous," Nicholas added.

"There's no way you're going to meet him alone," Grant finished.

Jim sighed and nodded, grateful for the concern of his team. "Yes, I suppose you're right," he conceded. "Thank you."

A few moments later, Jim hung up the phone. "It's all arranged. We've got plenty of time to snap a picture of the cab, drop everything off at the tv station, and get back to Zumari's condo by 11:30."

"Just in time for the 12:00 news," Grant added with a grin.

* * *

"Mr. McAllen," Labon Zumari greeted Jim from his condo 90 minutes later.

"Mr. Zumari, this is Marcus Taylor, one of my investigation team," Jim stated, indicating Grant. Grant nodded and grunted a hello in reply. Undercover or not, there was no way he could be cordial to this man...if he could be called that...after hearing firsthand what he'd done to his wife.

Labon Zumari nodded curtly. "Mr. McAllen, let's not waste time with pleasantries. Where is Michelle? Did you get her away from those evil bastards?"

"Mr. Zumari," Jim began, "you'd better sit down."

"Sit down?" Zumari exploded, his anger rising. "How can I sit down when you won't tell me what happened?"

"Calm down, Mr. Zumari, and we'll tell you everything," Jim said evenly.

"What did they do to her?" Zumari screamed, moving toward Jim as if to take his anger out on him.

Instantly, Grant stepped between Jim and Zumari. "He said, calm down!" he growled, shoving Zumari back down into a chair. "If you don't, we will have to restrain you."

Zumari clearly did not wish for this to happen. "All right," he agreed, his voice instantly calm again. "Tell me what happened to my Chelle."

"I'm afraid we have some bad news for you," Jim said, like a line from an old cop show.

Zumari's eyes instantly filled with tears. "No," he whispered, "don't you dare tell me she's dead! I won't believe it!"

"We've discovered some surveillance footage from the apartments across the street from you, dated last Thursday," Jim continued, as Zumari sobbed with increasing volume. "Your wife caught a cab, and we think she was headed to meet you at your campaign headquarters. Unfortunately, there was an accident. The cab she was riding in went over an embankment and caught fire. She did not survive. The cab was just found this morning. I'm sorry."

Labon sat on the couch, head in his hands, sobbing, for a few seconds. Then, after he'd had time to digest things, he spoke again:

"How do they know it was her in the cab if she burned up?"

"A doctor has identified her from dental records," Jim answered quietly.

"Those Shebaro bastards set this up!" he declared vehemently, his anger rising again. "They kidnapped her and put her in that cab!"

"That's not what the video tape shows," Grant rebutted.

"This is preposterous!" he yelled, rising to his feet, his face flushing. "You're covering for them! You're probably in on it, too! What have you done with her? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH HER?"

With lightning speed Zumari moved across the living room, thrusting both hands against Jim's chest and shoving him hard against the wall. Grant 's reaction was just as swift, as he picked up a brass paperweight and struck it hard against the back of Zumari's head. Labon collapsed, in the process releasing Jim, who sank to the floor, stunned.

"Jim, are you all right?" Grant asked worriedly, crouching beside the elder agent.

Jim nodded wordlessly, holding up a hand to signal that he needed a moment to catch his breath. Finally he spoke.

"I'm all right now," he replied, as he attempted to stand.

"Are you sure?" Grant questioned further, not entirely convinced, as he helped him to his feet.

"Yes," Jim answered, trying to reassure his friend with a slight smile. "He just knocked the wind out of me."

Grant kept his steadying hand on Jim's shoulder for an extra moment, until he was certain Jim was really okay.

"I can't believe he attacked you like that," he murmured in exasperation.

"Yes, unfortunately, it seems that Michelle was right about what he's capable of," replied Jim tersely,

Suddenly Zumari begin to stir.

"Better tie him up before he decides to attack again," muttered Grant.

Jim looked at his watch. "Time to turn on the news."

He switched on the television. Grant finished tying up the man's hands and feet and positioned him in the chair facing the screen just as Labon returned to consciousness.

"Mr. Zumari," Jim said coolly, "I think you'd better watch this."

"Thank you for joining us," a female news anchor began. "We take you immediately to a developing story. We have just learned that Michelle Zumari, wife of Labon Zumari, a candidate in tomorrow's election, has been killed in what appears to be a tragic car accident. According to information obtained by the network, Michelle Zumari was a passenger in a taxicab when the cab went over an embankment and burst into flames..."

Jim and Grant eyed Zumari intently as he watched first the 'surveillance' footage, then the photograph of the charred cab, be presented on the television screen. He began to cry softly once again, and for a moment Jim almost felt sorry for him.

"...there were no survivors, and a medical statement obtained by our network..."

Fabricated by us, Grant thought, grinning inwardly.

"...indicates that Ms. Zumari was positively identified through dental records. The investigation is ongoing but no foul play is suspected. We will keep you informed of any new developments as we learn more."

Zumari was quiet for several moments. Then he whispered, "Let me go."

Jim and Grant looked at each other uncertainly. Just moments ago he had been so angry.

Zumari, his eyes liquid, witnessed the glance. "Please," he begged softly. "I'm not a threat to you. Please untie me."

Finally, Jim nodded to Grant, and Grant reluctantly began to undo the ropes which bound the young politician. "Okay," said Grant with a growl, "but don't try anything funny."

"I won't," Zumari assured them.

Once he was free, he quickly gathered his keys and sunglasses. "Where are you going?" Jim asked in surprise.

"I have to find her," Zumari whispered, his voice holding a dangerous edge, "and then I'm going to get even with the bastards who did this."

Before the agents could protest, Zumari took off like a bat out of hell.

Jim grabbed the communicator as he and Grant sped after him. "Nicholas," he said tensely.

"Jim," came the quick response, "is everything okay?"

"We're fine," Jim quickly assured him, "but Zumari took off as soon as he saw the broadcast. We think he's headed toward the hospital and then to Shebaro's compound. We'll have to move faster than we thought. Are you ready?"

"Everything's prepared, Jim," he replied.

"Good," responded Jim. "We have to make sure you get to Shebaro before he does. Shannon, can you intercept Zumari at the hospital? We're behind him but he's flying and we'll never catch him. We'll meet you there."

"I'm on it, Jim," confirmed Shannon, already picking up her keys and starting toward the door as she spoke.

Max, who had gotten up from his rest a half hour before, felt his heart come up in his throat. The thought of Zumari, the wife-beater, getting into a confrontation with... "Shannon?" he said uncertainly, as he got to his feet.

Shannon turned quickly at the sound of her name, caught the look on Max's face, and took three steps back to him. She smiled and reached for his hand.

"Max," she said reassuringly, "I'll be fine. It's a public place, and Jim and Grant will be right behind me." She squeezed his hand gratefully. "Nicholas needs your help."

Max nodded reluctantly and released Shannon. "I'll be careful," she promised, before he could say it.

"She's right, you know," Nicholas said to Max after the door closed behind her.

"About what?"

"She'll be fine," he answered. Then he smiled up at Max from behind his glasses. "And I do need your help. Are you up for wearing that uniform again?"

"Ready as I'll ever be, pal," Max replied, as he rushed off to get dressed.

Nicholas took a deep breath and slipped on the mask, as he had countless times before. This time, his hair and eyes needed no adjustments. Within five minutes, he was staring in the mirror at the face of Labon Zumari.

As soon as Max emerged from the bathroom, he took the wheel and drove Nicholas to Shebaro's compound.

* * *

Shannon pulled into the hospital parking lot at the same time that she saw the angry figure of Labon Zumari stomping toward the front entrance.

She had to act fast; luckily, she had thought of a plan on the way.

She parked in an illegal parking spot closer to the entrance and rushed over to Zumari.

"Excuse me, sir," she began, about to assume the role of damsel in distress.

"Get the hell out of my way!" boomed Zumari, shoving her backwards - not really forcefully, but hard enough to make her stumble briefly.

Well, that didn't work, she reflected. Thinking on her feet, she quickly formulated plan B and started to scream.

"Help!"

Her screams brought the hospital security guard out to the parking lot in a flash.

"What is it, ma'am?"

"This brute just pushed me down!" said Shannon, with exaggerated anger.

"I did not!" Zumari exploded as the security guard reached for his handcuffs and restrained him. There was a glimpse of recognition in the officer's eyes.

"Say, aren't you-?"

"Mister Zumari." Jim had reached the parking lot seconds earlier and now he was walking up at a rapid clip, with Grant at his heels.

"Tom McAllen, police investigator," he introduced himself to the officer with a nod. "I'm sorry; you'll have to excuse Mister Zumari. He's having a tough time coping with the death of his wife."

Zumari glared at Jim and continued to spout off epithets and conspiracy theories similar to those he had mentioned back at his condo, trying in vain to escape the cuffs and the officer's tight grip.

"Yes, I heard about that on the news earlier," the officer said sadly. "Such a shame."

"I'm afraid he's not responsible for anything he says or does right now. He has suffered quite a shock." Jim turned to Shannon. "Did he hurt you, miss?" he asked casually, though Shannon noticed the glimmer of concern in his eyes.

"No, officer, I'm fine," she replied with a smile, and Jim and Grant visibly relaxed - just slightly.

Zumari continued to rant, squirming to get free. "Mister Zumari may need to be sedated," Jim stated, amid vehement protests by the politician.

"I don't need sedation!" he fumed. "I just need to find my wife!"

Grant caught the security guard's eye and raised his eyebrows, as if to suggest that Zumari had just proven the point.

"I'm on it," the officer stated, then he keyed the walkie on his lapel and spoke a few quiet words. A few moments later, a tall man in a white coat came outside, accompanied by a nurse who was pushing a wheelchair. The man in the coat held a syringe.

"NO!" Zumari screamed.

"There, there, sir, just relax," the doctor soothed as he plunged the syringe deeply into Zumari's shoulder. Seconds later, his body sagged into the chair, still conscious but obviously relaxed and no longer speaking. The guard wordlessly removed the handcuffs.

"Take him inside," said the doctor, and the nurse began to push the wheelchair toward the hospital entrance.

"Doctor," Jim stated, "this man has just learned about the death of his wife, and he's almost certainly about to become the leader of this country. Do you think you can help him?"

"Oh, yes, officer. Absolutely," the doctor assured them. "We will help Mr. Zumari make peace with his wife's passing, and then we will help him become a great leader."

Satisfied that Zumari was no longer a threat to anyone or anything, the trio got into their respective vehicles and headed back to base camp to await Max and Nicholas.

tbc...


	13. Chapter 12

Disclaimer:

I do not own either of the Mission: Impossible series or any of the characters therein. I receive no compensation or other tangible benefit from this story. I am just a fan who enjoys taking the team out for an adventure every now and then. Please review. :)

* * *

Chapter 12

Max and Nicholas pulled up outside of Shebaro's compound. Nicholas reached for the door.

"Yell if there's any trouble," Max cautioned.

"I will," promised Nicholas, knowing Max would be listening to every word.

Nicholas, as Zumari, walked up to the front door and knocked. An armed guard came to answer the door.

"Labon Zumari," Nicholas greeted, mimicking the politician's voice perfectly. "I'd like to speak with the man in charge."

The guard pushed a button on awalkie-talkie and said a few words in his native tongue. Nicholas held his breath. Finally, the request apparently approved, he was permitted to enter.

The guard and one of his friends led Nicholas to an inner chamber. As he walked, he saw no sign of the entourage that Max had described on his trip undercover. Just the two guards - both first lieutenants judging by the red pinstripe. No sign of the other two lieutenants or the rest of the men. They were either down with the prisoners or marching through the city.

In the inner chamber, Nicholas came face to face with the unnamed leader of Shebaro's sympathizers.

"Zumari," he greeted in well-practiced English. "What brings you here to meet with me the day before the election?"

"I hope I'm not too early," replied Nicholas, placing slight emphasis on the word "too." Little did the man know that it was a pre-arranged code word, uttered for Max's benefit.

Only two guards, Max smiled to himself. Not bad odds at all. He waited for his cue.

"I suppose you heard the news," Nicholas said quietly, casting his eyes downward.

"I did," came the reply. "You have my condolences."

"Thank you," replied Nicholas. "Under the circumstances, would it be out of the question to request a little privacy?" he added, indicating the guards.

The leader hesitated for a moment, as if mulling it over. Maybe he didn't see his competition as a threat, maybe he felt sorry because he'd just lost his wife. or maybe he was just curious. Regardless, he eventually nodded to his guards and they exited the inner chamber.

"Much appreciated," Nicholas murmured.

Time to move, Max thought, as he exited the car.

He tried the front door knob and was a little surprised to find it unlocked. He turned it noiselessly and entered. The two guards were standing just outside the inner chamber, not far from their leader, but they appeared to be lost in conversation.

That was their mistake.

Max took them both completely by surprise. Within two minutes he had subdued both men, knocking them unconscious, snapping cuffs on their hands and feet, and whipping gags in both of their mouths.

Now, he just had to wait until the next signal from Nicholas.

"I just wanted to come share with you my sincere apologies," Nicholas was saying. "As you know, I publicly blamed you for my wife's disappearance. I'm sure you heard what really happened," he continued, sounding very much like a grieving widower who was about to lose all composure. "I now know your men had nothing to do with it."

The leader was quiet for a moment, considering his response. "I accept your apology," he replied. "And to that, I will add that obviously you were not hiding her on purpose."

"I'm glad we understand one another," Nicholas responded, extending his right hand toward Zumari's adversary, who accepted the handshake.

Nicholas cleared his throat. He had made nice with the competition and, along with his teammates, had kept Zumari from screwing things up. Now there was only one more thing to find out.

"The election tomorrow," he ventured, choosing his words carefully. "If we are victorious, I am prepared to declare an end to the civil war and bring peace to this country. Are you willing to do the same?"

The short, stocky man looked Nicholas dead in the eye, a cold smirk on his face. "Mister Zumari," he replied. "I have agreed to this election to please people who have more power than I do. But I will never stop trying to take control of Sergozia. My father died for this country. The election means nothing to me," he concluded, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Both Nicholas and Max, waiting anxiously in the next room, were taken aback by the coldness of the words uttered by the younger Shebaro. Clearly, he had no intentions of stopping the civil war. It was not enough to just "make nice" or win an election. He would have to be put out of power completely, or more people could die.

There was only one way to do it, but first Nicholas had to know the answer to his final question. He took a deep breath and mentally prepared himself for what he anticipated was coming.

"Mister Shebaro," he began, "is it true that you are holding some of our supporters in captivity? Are you planning to let them go?"

The smirk instantly faded from his face; now there was just coldness. "I think you'd better leave now, Mister Zumari, before I change my mind."

Shebaro yelled for his guards, but instead Max came charging in. Nicholas took advantage of Shebaro's surprise by delivering an uppercut which felled the stocky man instantly. Max quickly gagged and snapped cuffs on him as well, as Nicholas ripped off his disguise.

"Not bad," Max grinned, complimenting Nicholas' punch.

"Thanks for the assist," replied his friend with an affectionate back slap.

Max dug the communicator out of his pocket. "Jim."

"How's it going, Max?" came the reply.

"Shebaro's son refused to stop the civil war or turn loose of the captives," Max said succinctly, "but we're about to change his mind."

"Good," replied Jim, recalling the backup plan for just this occasion that the team had discussed earlier. "We're all finished here; Zumari is safely subdued. I'll call the police and have them report to Shebaro's camp."

"I'll be waiting," affirmed Max.

Nicholas grabbed the walkie-talkie that had been lying near the younger Shebaro - the one, he assumed, the man was using to communicate with his other soldiers.

It was a good thing Grant had taught him a few Sergozian words, Nicholas thought. He hadn't needed them to talk to Shebaro, thankfully, but he needed them now.

"Release the prisoners," he said simply, mimicking Shebaro's voice and native tongue perfectly.

Max was awed. Nicholas was good. He'd spoken to Shebaro less than fifteen minutes but had studied his inflections well enough to capture them completely and even translate them to a different language. It was downright uncanny.

Nicholas heard a response from the walkie that he assumed was protest or questioning on the part of the first lieutenant who was speaking. "That's an order," he answered, then anxiously awaited the confirmation.

Finally, Nicholas heard what he recalled was an affirmative reply, and he smiled as Max gave him a thumbs-up.

"You'd better go help out," urged Nicholas. "I'm not exactly dressed the part." He handed Max the wireless mic he'd been wearing, and Max gave him the earpiece. "I don't expect there'll be trouble, but if there is let me know. I'll be waiting in the car."

"Will do," replied Max, as he took off toward the elevator that would take him to the prisoners.

When Max reached the end of the underground tunnel, the other two lieutenants and the rest of the soldiers were already ushering the prisoners out of their cramped room. The soldiers were so busy following what they thought were orders from Shebaro that they barely noticed Max, much less recognized him from before. However, one of the prisoners - a female - seemed to. Her eyes grew wide at the recognition, and Max gave her a wink that went unnoticed by the others. The female captive smiled warmly at her rescuer.

The elevator carrying the prisoners, the lieutenants, and Max - for that was all who could ride at one time - reached the inner chamber. All at once, there was mass confusion. The lieutenants caught sight of their leader and colleagues cuffed and gagged, just as Sergozian police descended upon the compound. In the melee that followed, Max was able to quietly slip out the front door and climb into the car where Nicholas was waiting.

tbc...


	14. Epilogue

Disclaimer:

I do not own either of the Mission: Impossible series or any of the characters therein. I receive no compensation or other tangible benefit from this story. I am just a fan who enjoys taking the team out for an adventure every now and then. Please review. :)

* * *

Epilogue

The following evening, the five friends and teammates disembarked from their flight, made their way through customs, and gathered to say goodbye until the next mission. Shannon was pulling up a news feed on her cell phone.

"Listen to this, guys," she said, and began to read.

"Earlier today, the people of Sergozia went to the polls to elect a leader for the first time ever. People's Party candidate Labon Zumari was declared the winner, receiving two-thirds of the total votes, over his opponent, the son of the slain dictator Amahl Shebaro. The large margin of victory was attributed to Shebaro's arrest yesterday on charges of war crimes after he allegedly took at least a dozen political prisoners. In his victory speech, Zumari declared an end to the bitter civil war and dedicated his win to his wife Michelle, who was killed in a tragic car accident last week. 'She fought for justice,' said Zumari, 'and we will continue her fight.' For the next three days there will be public mourning for Michelle Zumari, after which the new leader will begin his reign."

The team looked at one another and smiled in satisfaction. Both parts of the mission had succeeded.

* * *

Five hundred miles away, on a secluded beach, a young woman with short dark hair casually sipped her margarita as she read the same newsfeed.

And Rebecca Phillips smiled to herself.

THE END

Hope you enjoyed it! :)


End file.
